Braintree.—The Castle (a beer-shop.) “Takes in all sorts and all sizes; all colours and all nations; similar to what’s expected of the Crystal Palace. I was a muck-snipe when I was there—why, a muck-snipe, sir, is a man regularly done up, coopered, and humped altogether—and it was a busyish time, and when the deputy paired off the single men, I didn’t much like my bed-mate. He was a shabby-genteel, buttoned up to the chin, and in the tract line. I thought of Old Scratch when I looked at him, though he weren’t a Scotchman, I think. I tipped the wink to an acquaintance there, and told him I thought my old complaint was coming on. That was, to kick and bite like a horse, in my sleep, a’cause my mother was terrified by a wicious horse not werry long afore I was born. So I dozed on the bed-side, and began to whinny; and my bed-mate jumped up frightened, and slept on the floor.” Twenty-two beds.
Thaxton.—“A poor place, but I stay two days, it’s so comfortable and so country, at the Rose and Crown. It’s a sort of rest. It’s decent and comfortable too, and it’s about 6d. a night to me for singing and patter in the tap-room. That’s my cokum (advantage).” Ten beds.
Saffron Walden.—The Castle. “Better now—was very queer. Slovenly as could be, and you had to pay for fire, though it was a house of call for curriers and other tradesmen, but they never mix with us. The landlord don’t care much whose admitted, or how they go on.” Twenty-four beds.
Cambridge.—“The grand town of all. London in miniature. It would be better but for the police. I don’t mean the college bull-dogs. They don’t interfere with us, only with women. The last time I was at Cambridge, sir, I hung the Mannings. It was the day, or two days, I’m not sure which, after their trial. We pattered at night, too late for the collegians to come out. We ‘worked’ about where we knew they lodged—I had a mate with me—and some of the windows of their rooms, in the colleges themselves, looks into the street. We pattered about later news of Mr. and Mrs. Manning. Up went the windows, and cords was let down to tie the papers to. But we always had the money first. We weren’t a-going to trust such out-and-out going young coves as them. One young gent. said: ‘I’m a sucking parson; won’t you trust me?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘we’ll not trust Father Peter.’ So he threw down 6d. and let down his cord, and he says, ‘Send six up.’ We saw it was Victoria’s head all right, so we sends up three. ‘Where’s the others?’ says he. ‘O,’ says I, ‘they’re 1d. a piece, and 1d. a piece extra for hanging Mr. and Mrs. Manning, as we have, to a cord; so it’s all right.’ Some laughed, and some said, ‘D—n you, wait till I see you in the town.’ But they hadn’t that pleasure. Yorkshire Betty’s is the head quarters at Cambridge,—or in Barnwell, of course, there’s no such places in Cambridge. It’s known as ‘W— and Muck Fort.’ It’s the real college touch—the seat of learning, if you’re seeing life. The college lads used to look in there oftener than they do now. They’re getting shyer. Men won’t put up with black eyes for nothing. Old Yorkshire Betty’s a motherly body, but she’s no ways particular in her management. Higgledy-piggledy; men and women; altogether.” Thirty beds.
Newmarket.—“The Woolpack. A lively place; middling other ways. There’s generally money to be had at Newmarket. I don’t stay there so long as some, for I don’t care about racing; and the poorest snob there’s a sporting character.” Six beds.
Bury St. Edmund’s.—“Old Jack Something’s. He was a publican for forty years. But he broke, and I’ve heard him say that if he hadn’t been a player on the fiddle, he should have destroyed his-self. But his fiddle diverted him in his troubles. He has a real Cremona, and can’t he play it? He’s played at dances at the Duke of Norfolk’s. I’ve heard him give the tune he played on his wedding night, years and years back, before I was born. He’s a noble-looking fellow; the fac-simile of Louis Philippe. It’s a clean and comfortable, hard and honest place.” Twelve beds.
Mildenhall.—“A private house; I forget the landlord’s name. The magistrates is queer there, and so very little work can be done in my way. I’ve been there when I was the only lodger.” Seven beds.
Ely.—“The Tom and Jerry. Very queer. No back kitchen or convenience. A regular rough place. Often quarrelling there all night long. Any caper allowed among men and women. The landlord’s easy frightened.” Five beds.
St. Ives.—“Plume of Feathers. Passable.” Eleven beds.
St. Neot’s.—“Bell and Dicky, and very dicky too. Queer doings in the dos (sleeping) and everything. It’s an out-of-the-way place, or the town’s people might see to it, but they won’t take any notice unless some traveller complains, and they won’t complain. They’re a body of men, sir, that don’t like to run gaping to a beak. The landlord seems to care for nothing but money. He takes in all that offer. Three in a bed often; men, women, and children mixed together. It’s anything but a tidy place.” Thirteen beds.